Sirens, and sirens

I went to a pub re-opening today. It used to be The White Lion, but then the brewery found out the landlord had been using it for his ‘White Supremacists In Norfolk’ group and decided to give it a re-fit. It’s gone back to its old name of The Owl.
I went in to show my support, and to keep the ‘New Year, New Job’ celebrations going apace. I ended up chatting to a nice chap called Andrew, a carpet fitter whose business is called ‘Carpet Diem’… Bless him. He had a liking for Marlboro, and an interesting scar on his neck which I never quite got around to asking him about.
Towards 3.30, he spotted two attractive ladies hovering by the fruit machine. I’m a realist, and a fat bastard, so I would never have considered trying to talk to them, but my new colleague was determined to try. “My technique is to leave it until the last possible minute before approaching the prey” he told me. He left it so late he didn’t see them leave, and had to race outside in a hurry to try and catch them, slipping on the kerb as he did so and getting clattered by a passing taxi.
I called for an ambulance straight away, while the taxi driver got out to call him “a dithering, numb-witted ****-head.” Charming.
The wing mirror had broken a rib and he’d dislocated a finger when he fell, but the ambulancemen were more concerned with the state of his liver.

And I used to think Tuesdays were boring.

RC 6-1-09
2039 GMT